I’m a lot of things: the baddest bitch, the realest nigga,
a child of god, a lordless land, black,
my grandma’s prayer-gifted lungs, barely more than smoke, a little
planet of chaotic orbit, a
versatile bottom, a believer in the gospel of house shoes and
screen doors, the last man
spinning on the dance floor, an awful child, the king of blunts and
homo-thugs, rightful heir
of my mother’s last dream; I’m the hope of the people, I’m what’s
wrong with black folks,
I’m a lot of things but they all alive. I’m alive & somebody mad
about it. Being black and not
dead is a radical act. If me saying that upsets you or annoys you,
you may kindly excuse
yourself from this poem. I got a lot to say that I shouldn’t have to,
like I matter. I dream in
questions like How would history be different if white folks had
just stayed home? I wake up
and think How many brown people were killed here so black
people could be killed here? I
shouldn’t have to say why the confederate flag is a symbol of hate
& oppression. I shouldn’t
have to say why the same is true for the American one. I’m a lot of
things: American, an
unpatriotic one, one that won’t leave cause where else?, one that
can’t stay here cause what
else will they think to do to bodies like mine? Last election I voted
for my shadow, my
blackest friend. I’m the president of my own shit. I’m the secretary
of being a boss. I’m too
fly for racism but that troll follows me around like the secret
service. White privilege is a
secret service. If me talking about white privilege bothers you,
your mama. I got 10,000
things to do but first I’d like a nap. 10,000 of those things are to
get free. In college a
professor asked us What is freedom to you? I remember someone
said Love, someone else
said The destruction of capitalism. I said I’m having a party this
weekend complete with
booze, spades, bachata, boys kissing boys, and Beyoncé jams & if
America doesn’t want you
dead, you can’t come.
a child of god, a lordless land, black,
my grandma’s prayer-gifted lungs, barely more than smoke, a little
planet of chaotic orbit, a
versatile bottom, a believer in the gospel of house shoes and
screen doors, the last man
spinning on the dance floor, an awful child, the king of blunts and
homo-thugs, rightful heir
of my mother’s last dream; I’m the hope of the people, I’m what’s
wrong with black folks,
I’m a lot of things but they all alive. I’m alive & somebody mad
about it. Being black and not
dead is a radical act. If me saying that upsets you or annoys you,
you may kindly excuse
yourself from this poem. I got a lot to say that I shouldn’t have to,
like I matter. I dream in
questions like How would history be different if white folks had
just stayed home? I wake up
and think How many brown people were killed here so black
people could be killed here? I
shouldn’t have to say why the confederate flag is a symbol of hate
& oppression. I shouldn’t
have to say why the same is true for the American one. I’m a lot of
things: American, an
unpatriotic one, one that won’t leave cause where else?, one that
can’t stay here cause what
else will they think to do to bodies like mine? Last election I voted
for my shadow, my
blackest friend. I’m the president of my own shit. I’m the secretary
of being a boss. I’m too
fly for racism but that troll follows me around like the secret
service. White privilege is a
secret service. If me talking about white privilege bothers you,
your mama. I got 10,000
things to do but first I’d like a nap. 10,000 of those things are to
get free. In college a
professor asked us What is freedom to you? I remember someone
said Love, someone else
said The destruction of capitalism. I said I’m having a party this
weekend complete with
booze, spades, bachata, boys kissing boys, and Beyoncé jams & if
America doesn’t want you
dead, you can’t come.
And don’t miss:
Essential Reading, an anthology of works that inform, inspire, question, and call us into action, from Narrative authors.
